Page 37 of Inflict

The man dropped the bat with a shout, pulling his bloody hand towards him at the same time Connor flung the bat backwards down the hall, forgetting the weapon in an instant. It wasn’t important now, it couldn’t be used.

“Mikhail, right?” Connor asked.

Connor ticked the man under his jaw with his knife, forcing the guy to look up at him, to stare him straight in his eyes and not get distracted by other wee things that were unimportant. All too soon, the only thing the man would see was the color red as he watched Connor hurt him. Better he got used to the face he was able to see, now.

“Right?” Connor pressed, spinning the tip of his blade ever so gently down the man’s throat.

“Da.”

Connor tipped his head to the side, recognizing the Russian term as confirmative. “For reference, if you’re going to speak to me in your mother tongue like a feckin’ eejit, I’ll just cut the bastard right out and save us both the hassle.”

That seemed to do the trick.

“Mikhail is my name, yes,” the man said slowly.

His gaze took in the tattoos on the man—the most obvious ones he knew were important to the Russians’ and their culture—a set of stars on the clavicle bones, epaulettes on the shoulders. As old as the man was, with his graying, receding hair, weathered skin and his rounded stomach, his body was a canvas of artwork.

Connor simply didn’t have the time to appreciate the work.

Mikhail was practically naked, and while he didn’t smell of booze, he was clearly drunk, likely from vodka. The smash of the bat hitting the wall had not been quiet, and neither had Mikhail’s shout from being cut across his hand, which was now causing quite a puddle of red on the floor and his feet.

None of those details mattered much, except for what they meant.

No one else was home.

Perhaps no one lived here with the man, no wife, daughter, or other sons as Sean had said weeks earlier when he’d passed this task on. That meant, for Connor, this job was … ridiculously easy.

Still, Connor wanted to be sure. “No wife?”

Mikhail swallowed hard as the knife was dragged over his bobbing Adam’s apple. “Suka left me years ago.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re Sean’s boy, no?”

Connor refused to give any sort of reaction to being recognized, simply shrugged. “Good guess.”

“Not a guess,” the Russian murmured. “Your eyes—they’re the same as your father’s. Not as dead, perhaps, but still the same, yes?”

“We’re not that alike.”

“It’s enough, boy.”

Connor kept one eye on his knife, and the other on any reaction coming from Mikhail. Although, if he were honest, the Russian seemed almost … resigned. As though he had expected this, or something of the sort, and maybe he had been waiting for it.

Who was Connor to say?

“Your father is a bastard,” Mikhail said, his tone strong though his voice was quiet, “one that cannot be trusted.”

“This isn’t news.”

“You could at least apologize for my son, even if this has nothing to do with him in the end.”

“What else is it about, then?”

Mikhail smiled a sad sight. “You’ll find out soon enough. An apology, yes?”

Connor eyed the man, gaging his intentions. “You do realize I’m going to skin you alive, right?”